


liquid-like love

by dabeeondamoon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (Not between Techno and Phil), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Philza and Techno are NOT RELATED, Recovery, References to Depression, Techno and Phil heal each other, True Love, past unhealthy relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 19:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30077118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabeeondamoon/pseuds/dabeeondamoon
Summary: Philza runs to forget; runs until his feet turn sore and his legs buckle into the ground. Somewhere along the way, he finds himself at a bar and meets an elusive gentleman with cherry blossom hair and red liquor on his lips.Techno drowns in lukewarm crimson and rolled cigars. Now he’s sharing a drink with a weary-eyed angel at a bar, but at least he wasn’t drinking alone.
Relationships: Technoblade/Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 107





	1. Dirty Feet Runnin'

**Author's Note:**

> tw// panic attack, implied past toxic/abusive relationship, implied abuse, depression
> 
> Despite that, I promise you that with my mediocre writing that it's not that heavy. but be warned anyway

He wakes with a stuttered breath and stares at the pale moonlight bathing his room in a soft blue. Sweat sticks to his damp skin and he vaguely hears his own heavy breathing; pained and weak even in his sleepy state. His alarm hasn’t been set off, but he gets up on his shaky feet and freshens up in his bathroom. His reflection is a dead manㅡ he sees tired eyes and a red nose, tangled blond hair that slips down his shoulders and down to his waist ㅡ and he flinches in disgust. 

For a moment, it’s like he’s looking at a different person. This isn’t ‘Phil’, this isn’t ‘Philza’. That is an empty space left indented on a bed of grass, waiting for a person to make a home in it. But it’s him. And it’s him who dons a light cloak around his shoulders and walks out the door; the small figure of a lonely bird running on dirty feet. 

It’s torturous, but he starts running. Every step feels like pieces of broken glass pierce his feet. He’s been doing this for months, ever since he started having vivid visions of _him._ Visions that would force him awake in the quietest hours of the morning. Sometimes, Phil closes his eyes and imagines that he’s flying. 

He’s planned out a route for his morning runs. He heads straight from his apartment to the town bakery, then to the left, where he runs through the small park they had there. He’d loop around to the town’s shopping corner, where Tubbo’s flower shop, Ranboo’s cafe and Tommy’s restaurant were; including a few other establishments from the other people in town, including his own library. If he ran fast enough, he’d be able to make it home in time for one more hour of sleep before the day truly began.   
  
It leaves his knees hurting sometimes, straining his muscle some. But it’s a distracting enough ache that he doesn’t have a moment to think about _him_ and his icy breath and icy hands, cold eyes with his cold hands on Phil’s neck. Like the tundra, their love was nothing but a winter hellscape. Like an idiot, Phil still has love for him, even if it hurt. He aches for him in the morning, and he pushes himself to run faster and faster each time, until he's nothing but a crumpled piece of paper in front of his door.   
  
Philza shook his head and closed his eyes shut, running on instinctive movements. The wind blowing through his hair gives the illusion that he’s soaring through an endless sky with wings he did not have. He’s running, running, _running_ like he’s being chased by something. He opens his eyes and from behind him he sees nothing but roads and buildings, but his mind plays a cruel trick on him. The shadows in the corners of the alleyways turn into _his_ figure and the trees turn into twisting branches that morph into thick fingers, moving as if to touch him. Grab him around the waist and force himㅡ 

Phil lets out a soundless scream and pushes himself faster than before. The breeze is cold against his face, too cold, _too cold_ and he knows that it’s a twisted love he’s running from. The wind sings his name, the _cold_ way that his mouth forms in _his_ mouth, like it's being spat out in malice. Phil doesn’t want to turn to look at what’s chasing him, the pattering footsteps behind him sounding more like an old gong, but something’s there! He knows it ㅡ because it’s too _cold_ and his lungs are burning, now it’s suddenly too _hot_. Phil just wants to be warm for once, he just wants to beㅡ 

“ _Sam!_ ” He screams, and he collapses on the road. He feels jittery hands covering his face. Was this his body? It doesn’t feel like his body anymore. ‘You’re mine’ repeats in his ears, and it’s Sam’s voice again. He sobs and curls in on himself, but Sam doesn’t stop. He feels a phantom touch on his neck and on his hips. ‘You’re mine’ The voice repeats, but Phil knows it’s not Sam. Sam isn’t here, he left. But he isn’t gone, he could never be gone. His fingertips are indented in his body. It isn’t Phil’s body any more, it’s Sam’s. 

He feels a gentle touch on his hand, soft like a flower petal. Phil opens his eyes, and even in a body that wasn’t his own, he knows that kind face by heart. Tubbo gives him a kind smile; the kind of smile that you only saw once in a lifetime. A beautiful smile laced genuine kindness. But even if he was soft, his grip was strong. Grounding Phil to reality. His eyesight comes back to him, and he sees his son’s face more clearly now.   
  
(Tubbo wasn’t his son. But in his heart, he’d always be.) 

Messy blond hair, clearly the product of sleep. Even his eyes look tired, but the concern that bubbles in those baby blues overpowers it. His voice was as kind as he looked, a stuttered “Mr. Phil?” bringing him back to his senses.   
  
“Here, can you do this for me? Tell me what you see.”  
  
He does. He labels everything that his eyes can see. That is my son, Tubbo. That is grass. That is a tree. That is the sky. And behind his son is his son’s flower shop. His mouth moves without his knowledge and Tubbo carefully helps him up and takes him inside. Phil feels particularly pathetic, having to rely on a boy a few years his junior. Something about the warmth of Tubbo’s smile eases that a little.  


* * *

Ranboo and Tommy stand by Tubbo’s side, idly chatting about nothing in particular to fill the empty silence. They arrived as soon as Tubbo called him, sounding all sorts of worried and frantic on the phone. Phil is on the couch, wrapped around a few blankets that Tubbo got from his spare closet and cupping his hands on a war mug of hot chocolate. The poor man was still shaken up, from what, Tubbo would never know. But he knew he’d be there for him.  
  
“I’m worried.” He confides in Ranboo, never quite meeting the taller boy’s eyes. “I wanna help him as much as I can, but I don’t know how, boo.”  
  
“You’re not alone; neither is he. Wilbur’s a few days away but he says he’s coming back as soon as he can. We’ll be here for him no matter what, bumblebee.” 

Tommy nudges them, offering two cups of jasmine tea, and offers his own words. “We’ll be here alright, I’m gonna passive-aggressively yell compliments at him until he gets better.” He jokes but his tone turns sour, “Then we’ll kill the dipshit that hurt him.”  
  
“Oh? And how would we do that?”  
  
“Nukes! Nukes!”  
  
“No, Tub-”  
  
“Drug em!”  
  
“Tubbo!” 

Phil watches the chaos unfolding from the doorway. Flour and pans fall to the ground as the hilarious visual of Ranboo and Tommy desperately running away from a boy that barely reached their shoulders. It brings a smile to his face and a hand to his mouth, covering his laughter. Taking his hat from the hook on the door and his cloak, he leaves behind a note for the chaotic trio of young adults before taking his leave. 

  


* * *

‘Thanks for helping. I’ll repay you guys later. Please take care and stay safe; don’t hesitate to call me.  
  
Side note: Sorry, no nukes or drugs for you, Tubster. Maybe when you’re older.  
  
-love, P̶h̶i̶l̶z̶a̶ ̶A̶i̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ 

Dadza 

* * *

Those events had led him wandering aimlessly through the town. Not running, simply walking and taking in the fresh summer air. Along the way he chats with some of his friends and acquaintances. Phil allowed himself to waste his day away, staying in one place like in the library would just cause more mental strain. And maybe the flowery scent that was permanently stuck on Tubbo’s skin made him miss the outside world.   
  
Steadily, it was turning into night. The sky was a pretty canvas of watercolor reds, oranges and yellows, blending in with the prettiest twilight purple. If he had a camera with him, Phil would take a picture. He settled on just admiring the view for now. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a crowd of people gathering in front of a building he’d never seen before. It was a fairly large building, and from where he was, he could see the faint light coming from there.   
  
Well, it wouldn’t hurt to see what it was.   


* * *

Those events are what led him to the most extravagant bar he’d ever seen. It looked more like a ballroom, with chandeliers that sparkled like diamonds and a band in full swing. Straight out of a 1980’s speakeasy. That’s what it reminded him of, at least. He’d seen enough movies to get the picture of that time’s aesthetics. He felt a little under-dressed, clad in a cloak, a hat, and a loose sweater tucked into his pants. Not quite the outfit meant for a bar- speakeasy- or whatever this place was.   
  
Blinking a few times, a slap to the wrist confirmed that he was not dreaming. Or that this was a particularly realistic dream. He got a few odd looks for his attire, but he waves it off. He might as well have some fun.   
  
It smelt like booze and alcohol already, the nicotine stenching the air. Still, he walks over to the bar and takes one of the empty seats. Even the bartender’s all dressed up and dapper, tending to the other folks waiting for their own glass of social lubricant. Phil glances up at the options displayed on the wall. Beer, gin, whiskey ㅡ your run of the mill collection of alcohol ㅡ all reasonably priced, and luckily for him, he could spare a few coins for some drinks.   
  
He waves over the bar keep. “I’ll have an Addington, please.”  
  
“That’s your drink of the night?”  
  
An amused voice comes from his right, deep yet rough like a hard liquor. Phil turns to his company. He’s surprised at the pig skull that he’s greeted with rather than a person’s face. Then again, the residents here had a variety of odd characters. Dream wore a porcelain mask with a crudely drawn smiley-face. Sam Nook wore a gas mask. And this gentleman here wore a pig skull as a mask.   
  
...Alright. It was a little off-putting. 

Despite that, Phil can tell that he has a handsome face. The man wasn’t piggish like his mask suggested, his sharp jawline and his suit, tailored and pressed without a single crease disturbing its elegance. Phil hasn’t known this man long, but he can tell he was the sort of fella who preferred hard liquor and red wines, and who also indulged in tobacco, as the scent that stuck to his black suit suggested. His hair was short and pink, gelled and styled neatly. A hard contrast to the mess that Phil currently was. 

“I’m not that good with alcohol, I’m afraid, mate.”  
  
“You walked into a bar.”  
  
“ㅡ to get a slight buzz, yes. Maybe make some conversation. Which I’m doing, evidently.” 

The man chuckles. It sounds like smooth milk chocolate. “You look like you stumbled in here, without quite knowing what this place was, and you’ve decided that you might as well grab a drink and go.”  
  
“You’re right about that one.” Phil laughs, “Saw the lights of a party and walked in. Could you blame me?” 

“Nope.” And Phil has to admit, the monotone delivery of every word sounds like his companion was the kind of man who read books to himself in front of a fireplace every night. It’s pleasing. “Since you’re here, why not share a drink with me? My treat.”   
  
Phil raises an eyebrow. There’s a perfectly willing lady across the table, beautiful in every sense of the word with her fluttery lashes and pouty lips, thrusting her...endowments and sending his companion inviting looks. Yet, he chooses to sit down with a man wrapped in a cloak of all things. “You sure about that? According to your reaction to my choice of drink, I thought you’d find me quite lame.”  
  
“You’re interesting.” He gazes at Phil’s eyes pointedly, as if to convey some silent words for Phil to decipher. “It’s Techno Blade, but I’m sure it’d be easier to just call me by my first name. Unless you want me to call you ‘Angel’ this entire time, I’d like a name to that face of yours.”  
  
Phil’s been called many names, ‘Angel’ certainly wasn’t one of them. The man relaxes in his chair, as if he didn’t just insert himself into Phil’s presence and demand for his company. But his air is charismatic and mysterious, quick to quip and commentate. Techno would make good company, Phil decides.   
  
He gives his name and the responding laugh makes him feel like he’d just signed his soul away to the devil. Techno calls over the bar keep with a low command. “Four fingers of brandy and an Addington for my…” Phil hears the smirk in his voice, “ _Sensitive-tongued_ friend, over here. Put it on my tab.” 

_Oh, so the devil likes brandy, does he?_


	2. On the House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for the beginning of this chapter: past abusive relationship, implied abuse with sexual implications. none of these are explicitly described, but are mentioned.

Philza found himself running again, past the shops and down the road aimlessly. The cold wind follows him, he closes his eyes. He’s no less better dressed than last time, fighting against the cold with only an old green coat he dug out from his closet in his hurried frenzy. He’s not sure where his feet are taking him; and he’s too scared to look. Pathetic, he was pathetic. But no matter how much he ran, Sam’s cold fingertips pressed against his nape, thumbing at his throat. Phil took a deep breath ─ _counting one, two, three_ ─ exhale. Inhale, exhale. Just breathe, Phil. _How hard is it to fucking breath, you pathetic waste of_ ─ 

**Inhale.** He grit his teeth. He wouldn’t collapse, not when he’d already taken the fall yesterday. He won’t lose to Sam twice. Opening his eyes, he races down the street and takes a hard left. Ran past the early morning fog and out. He looks to the path he usually takes, and then runs the other direction. He can’t go back home yet, he has a mission. 

Phil stares at the old warehouse. Sam used to work there as a carpenter. It was where they met. He remembers Sam’s pale blue eyes, so pale they nearly blended in with the whites of his eyes. He remembers his freezing cold skin; and he really wasn’t the type of guys Phil went for. The man looked at him, placed his dirty hand on Phil’s blond hair; and then proceeded to insult and ask Phil out on a date in one breath. He should have listened to Wilbur when he warned him; _Don’t trust English boys with too much free time, Phil, listen to me,_ but he was too kind for his own good. He accepted the date, followed with the next dates after that. 

It was a mistaken belief of love. There was never any love on Sam’s blue lips. Love doesn’t feel like rough, oily fingers and cigarette burns. (Did love really feel like that? Maybe Phil was the one who was wrong. Sam said he loved him, _he said he loved him!_ Sam loves him, so he wouldn’t hurt him, right? _And yet-_ ) 

His feet are stuck to the ground. The warehouse sneers at him, all creaky wood and empty stacks of boxes. It’s where it began, and where it ended. Sam took him there, where he was humiliated and used; cornered by a group of men and _recorded_ \- Wilbur found him there, wrapped in a spare blanket mockingly left on the ground for him. He didn’t tell Wilbur what happened, but he knew. They destroyed the videos. They couldn’t destroy Sam.   
  
Gritting his teeth, Phil let out a yell as ran full speed at it. His feet were sore, his knees cried and cried at him but he was tried. He’s tired of running. He’s tired of waking at 4 am, he’s tired of cold streets and he’s tired of _Sam._ It was unfair, so _unfair._ He never got any closure, there was no justice. There was pity, there was rage, but never _justice_. For all that it’s worth, he manages to push his feet just enough to run past that cruel building. 

_I’ve moved past you. I’m more than you. I don’t need your love. I am my own person._ Phil looks at his cheap, dirty running shoes and doubts himself. 

He hopes the symbolism of it all is worth it. 

“Who are you running from?” 

Phil turns his gaze, his mind connecting the voice to a face before he even sees him. Techno returns his gaze, his head tilted to the side. It’s not a mocking gesture, Phil can tell. There’s isn’t a cruel tinge to his tone, remaining pleasantly monotone and suave. He stands tall, still as dressed as he was at the bar. His suit is cobalt black and pressed, his burberry coat broadening his shoulders. That mask was still on, his hair styled into a high ponytail. Yet, Phil feels safe. Those eyes are a dark, ocean blue. Full of life. Techno looks at the path Phil came from and rephrases his question, his monotone voice softening just slightly.   
  
“What are you running from, _mon ange_?”  
  
Phil doesn't answer. Techno gives him a once over, walking over to him with those expensive shoes that clicked with every step he took. He offered his hand, Phil took it. 

It was warm. 

"The bar is open. It'll pour soon, according to the forecast. **I don't want you to get cold**." 

Phil is sure that Techno doesn’t know what those softly uttered words mean to him, but he still sobs. “Thank you.” 

* * *

It’s far too early for a drink, the bar should be closed. Phil only realized this when they were in front of it. Yet, the staff opened the doors for them and a warm yellow light filled the building. Techno held his hand as jazz filtered in through a speaker. The bar keeper, a different one this time, quickly took his place in front of the bar. It was empty, save for the two of them. He took a glance at his companion, who seemed perfectly used to the treatment. 

Techno led them both up the grand, spiraling stairs and through a velvet red hallway lit with intricate lights installed on the wall. The decor reeked of rich taste, full portraits of painted portrayals of gods and history; vivid painted landscapes on an aureate backdrop. At the end of the hall, Techno opens a door and takes them both inside.   
  
It looked like a high-end apartment or suite, minus the bed. The first thing he sees is the small kitchen in the room, pulled straight out from a home decor magazine. To the side, a table with four chairs. Next to the kitchen was a deep rusty red colored sofa, beside it were two smaller couches placed parallel to each other. The place was lined with bookcases filled with books. Otherwise, the room didn’t look lived in at all. No paintings, no knick-knacks or anything whatsoever. 

Phil took a step in, his feet immediately greeted by the soft carpeted floors. Techno followed, silently gesturing for him to place his shoes in the shoe rack. As he did, the tall man played a tune on the stereo and hummed to himself, grabbing a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.   
  
“What is this place?” 

“One of the prestige rooms that this club offers. Would you like some wine, Phil?” 

“It’s too early to be drinking.”  
  
“Says who?” Techno replied, but placed the bottle back into the fridge. He took a kettle from one of the cupboards and filled it with tap water before putting it on the stove to boil. “I remember you saying that you liked tea yesterday. Though I, personally, prefer coffee over tea any day.”  
  
Phil scoffed, “I still stand by what I said. Coffee’s too bitter.”  
  
“Yes, yes. Of course.”  
  
When the water was done boiling, Techno poured it into two cups and prepared their drinks. Oolong tea for his guest and Black coffee for himself. Phil watched as his arms flexed, the distinct lines of his muscle showing through his pink-ish skin. He placed the cups on trays and sat next to him. Whispering a quiet thanks, Phil clasped the cup in his hands and took a sip; the floral, light taste- almost like drinking down something grassy. The pale liquid provided a soft burn as it trickled down his throat before warming his belly. Techno lightly glanced at him, once again observing. 

Phil wonders what he sees, as he gazes at his reflection in the liquid. He sees sunken eyes covered by light and long lashes, and he wonders what Techno sees to be looking at him like that. There’s something particular in the man’s stare, like he’s an artist examining the finer details of a painting, mentally tracing soft curves and sharp edges with his finger. Phil returns his gaze, hoping for a single word to come from that mouth, but not a single noise leaves him as he reclines in his seat.   
  
There is a silence in the air. Thick, but not confining. It’s a peaceful silence that longs for more, like the pining distance between the sun and the moon. Like a patch of grass once laid in, now empty, the silence waits idly for a single word to be spoken.   
  
Phil takes a deep breath, “Thank you for your company, mate. You really didn’t have to.”  
  
“No need,” Techno waves a hand dismissively. “You were good company last night.”  
  
“Am I?”   
  
“Quick-witted, companionable, pleasant…” Techno lists off, his fingers tapping against his cup in a rhythmic motion. 

“- charmer.” Phil mumbled, letting the suave chocolate-milk smoothness of Techno’s voice calm his thoughts. 

“That would be you, Philza Aither.”  
  
“Charmer? Me? Never.”  
  
“You’re full of charm.”  
  
“Flatterer.”  
  
Techno droned under his breath. “I’m not sure about your _taste._ ” He looked at him, a twinkle sparkling brightly under the sea that was his eyes. The skull that he wore on his face didn’t diminish the sight at all. 

Phil nearly choked on his tea, “ _Pardon?_ ” 

Techno chuckled to himself, “You can’t handle your liquor well, you told me yesterday.” He met Phil’s eyes as he took a long sip from his cup, “I’ve never seen a man look so betrayed over a single shot of _whiskey_.” 

“You said it was lemonade!”  
  
“Lemonade? At a bar, _cosette_?”  
  
Huffing, Phil placed his cup on the table and hurried to the fridge, taking the bottle of champagne and slamming it down in front of Techno with a pout.   
  
“Watch me.”  


Techno’s lips slowly curled into an irritatingly smug smirk. Phil raised an eyebrow challengingly.  
  
“ _Watch me_.” 

“Oh, I will be watching.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> I changed Philza's name to Philza Aither because I laugh whenever I try and imagine someone's last name being 'Minecraft'. Aither means "spirit of the air". 
> 
> Philza has no biological children in this story.
> 
> The 'Sam' referred to in this story as Philza's past lover is not Awesamdude or Sam Nook. It's a reference to the Samsung Fridge. 'Sam' isn't just a one-off joke, as he will be relevant in later chapters. 
> 
> As seen by the 'age changes' tag, I've changed some of the ages of the characters.
> 
> Tubbo, Ranboo, Tommy: Not specified, around ~20
> 
> Philza: 25-26
> 
> Techno: 23-24


End file.
